


Play Me a Song...

by Patcho418



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Based Very Heavily on My Own Experiences Both In Music School and With Synesthesia/Perfect Pitch, F/F, Musicians, Self-Indulgent, Synesthesia, and Yang is the rock guitarist whose sound she falls in love with, in which Blake is a piano major with synesthesia, musician au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28698345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patcho418/pseuds/Patcho418
Summary: Blake shifts her focus fully, unable to hear Sun calling to her as she drifts towards the source of the sound, the chords shifting into a palette of colours, of greens, of reds, of purples, and ofgold.She stumbles over her steps as she moves towards the music, her lips almost giving way to a smirk when a soft voice joins the chorus, and suddenly she is more drawn to the song, hypnotised by a sound she’d not realised had been robbed of her for years, held from her grasp in favour of cold, colourless notes.After years of feeling uninspired by the music she used to love, piano major Blake Belladonna's life is filled with grey music. A fateful meeting with guitarist Yang Xiao Long fills her world with new colour, but is it simply musical appreciation that draws them together or something more?
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 47
Kudos: 108





	1. ...and Catch My Ear

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all !!! So this is gonna be my new Bumbleby multichap project for the foreseeable future, though that doesn't mean I'm just going to abandon 'Head Above Water', 'Songs I Wrote About You', and 'These Moving Parts Inside of Me' if you're interested in seeing those fics continue. I find it often easier to work on a few different stories at once rather than focusing entirely on a single AU, which makes writing them slow but doesn't tucker me out quite as much. 
> 
> Some of you might also be thinking 'hey, isn't this a fic she already posted? i already read this!!' which is true, I had this posted back in 2019 but took it down in 2020 when I realized I wouldn't be able to release chapter 2 in adequate time. I've been working on completing more of this AU and am more comfortable with spacing out chapter releases now than before, but hopefully none of this stops you from picking this story up!
> 
> Either way, I'm excited to share this AU with y'all!! It's very heavily based on my own experiences in University for my music major (which I'm still working on, but hopefully not for much longer) and only slightly less heavily based on my experiences with perfect pitch and colour-grapheme synesthesia. Hopefully you all enjoy this self-indulgent story and stick with it! If y'all wanna find me elsewhere, I'm @PatchoDraws on Twitter, Tumblr, and Insta, where I sometimes share WIPs of my writing projects and original/fan art!
> 
> ✨Thank you, and enjoy the show!✨

It takes some convincing, but Sun manages to get Blake to grab some lunch with him.

Blake both admires and curses his persistence, knowing that she would likely have spent all day and all night in the practice room without his constant check-ins and cravings for noodles and all those annoyingly woeful texts about cute boys on campus he’s sure are his soulmates. She’s never believed in soulmates, always known them only in fairy tales and bland operas she’s studied in history class, but if the concept gets her to rest for even a minute, they can’t be all bad.

 _Simple Wok?_ his text reads on her screen.

Blake can’t help but roll her eyes, but she texts back; she’s already agreed, and when Sun’s set his mind on something he’s stupidly stubborn about it.

 _Sure. Meet you outside Tache in 5?_

Instantly, her reply is met with several enthusiastic thumbs-up emojis.

She takes another look at the studio piano, crumpled sheet music between unspoiled plastic page protectors resting on the stand. The thought crosses her mind that she could leave her music here and it’ll be here when she comes back. Few students practice on-campus over the weekend, and even then people leave their music around anyways with the knowledge that no one has a reason to steal it.

Pocketing her phone, Blake turns to the door and red flashes in her vision; a low A follows suit, rumbling and foreboding and full of spite.

She shoves her music hastily into her satchel and speeds down to meet Sun.

Blake had forgotten just how brilliant the sun is these days, so the shift from her glum practice room to fresh air, bird calls, and sunlight is jarring, to say the least. And, as much as she loves him, Sun’s perky disposition is a big change from dour Beethoven and brooding Rachmaninoff, with his exaggerated gestures, his tenacious grin, and when Blake thinks of his note—his colour—she hears orange, floating in high registers, fluttering joyously around an unfinished melody.

“So how’s the rep coming along?”

“Nowhere near where it should be,” she grumbles, her arms folding inwards. “My recital’s this this Friday and I still can’t seem to get the Ravel right.”

Sun nudges her teasingly. “Yeah, but aren’t you, like, the only person who can even play that much of the Ravel?” When Blake doesn’t meet his gaze, he shuffles awkwardly. “Seriously, Blake, you’re, like, a prodigy! It’s gonna be awesome!”

“Sure, if you say so,” she shoots back more defensively than intended.

His fluttering doesn’t end there, though it does fluctuate with occasional silences from Blake, and in those moments she can’t feel any more incomplete, isolated, soulless. She’s a musician, a performer. She paints with sounds and plays with colours on every piano key. She can’t feel like this, she can’t allow herself to play sonatas and concertos and minuets when she herself doesn’t even know what kind of music she is, what kind of music she gives.

The campus may not be bustling, but there’s enough sound traffic for Blake to be able to tune out inconsequential sounds, focusing on her friend as he rambles aimlessly to her, seemingly happy enough hearing his own voice; either that or he knows just how much she needs a voice to stay focused on.

That doesn’t stop her from halting at the sound of a chord breaking through the noise.

She pauses, listens more intently for that sound again, that soft guitar strum that drew her out of her focused mindset. Still noise for a moment, and then it comes again, though this time a new chord, a new colour; G, black but solid, comforting, and embraced by golden yellow.

Blake shifts her focus fully, unable to hear Sun calling to her as she drifts towards the source of the sound, the chords shifting into a palette of colours, of greens, of reds, of purples, and of gold. She stumbles over her steps as she moves towards the music, her lips almost giving way to a smirk when a soft voice joins the chorus, and suddenly she is more drawn to the song, hypnotised by a sound she’d not realised had been robbed of her for years, held from her grasp in favour of cold, colourless notes.

She stops several meters away from the sound, and she swears for a moment that if the music is enough to draw her in, the woman playing guitar and singing underneath the shade of a tree can keep her there, still and entranced by her beauty. Amber eyes study the singer, whose thick mane of gold is pulled into a messy bun above her head, and whose lilac eyes intensely study a notebook sitting in the grass in front of her; a guitar sits on her lap, balanced by her left arm and played by a prosthetic on her right.

And when she plays her next chord, Blake sees the purest symphony of colours, sees every single tone in her voice and from the guitar like colourful ocean waves washing against her feet, the threat of being dragged into the depths ever present but the gentleness of the sound a reassurance that she’s free not to be pulled in. It’s an invitation, and by god does she want to accept it.

Lilac joins the symphony of colours; there’s not a note to accompany it, just a quick glance from the woman under the tree. She clearly notices Blake, as when her eyes fall to her she offers an earthy smile, gentle and far more serene than it has any right to be, before her eyes fall back to her notebook.

“Blake!”

It’s enough to catch her attention, and she just barely manages to turn away to meet Sun’s gaze, bright as he marches over.

“What’re you doing? I thought we were grabbing lunch!”

“Yeah,” Blake posits, still under the music’s thrall. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

Her sudden directness prompts Sun to peer over her shoulder, and she looks back at the girl with the guitar, singing her song, surrounded by sunlight save for the halo of shadow the tree offers. Blake hopes that she’ll look again, that she’ll show her that smile and those lilac eyes, but instead she continues performing.

Blake is drawn away by Sun, who himself seems to have been made content by the music; he wears a lopsided grin, and when they’ve reached their destination, he brings her in close, a chuckle escaping his lips. “Geez, you tryna seem desperate?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blake lies. They both know it.

Sun shrugs. “I haven’t seen you be that loud since…well…” Blake knows he’s never seen it; she’s tried not to be for years, and until now she’s succeeded.

She bites her bottom lip gently, pensive as the final bits of golden sound escape her ears and she has to restrain from calling them back. “Her music. It was like nothing I’ve heard before, Sun. It was so colourful and full!” She groans to herself as Sun orders their meals, hands curling against her temples. “She was incredible.”

“Who was she?” Sun asks idly, more focused on the noodle bowls being passed to him.

“I…I’m not sure,” Blake replies. She dreads that she doesn’t know, dreads that she may never hear that music again.

But maybe today is enough for her to hear.

* * *

_Jinn’s_ is always so busy.

Blake has noticed this before, how she can show up in the early hours of the morning before class to grab a muffin and coffee and the line will already be out the door; similarly, when she needs just that little extra boost for practicing late, she’ll usually be standing in line for much longer than is convenient.

Her fingers twitch anxiously, exhaustion stretching bags under her eyes. The recital is coming, with it coming grey notes and judging eyes peering out from a shadowy audience. One wrong note could spell disaster, one missed page turn could derail the whole performance. She can’t let herself be tired, not for this. It’s far too important to mess up.

The line shuffles forward, but not at all quick enough; just what is taking so long? She peers around the person in front of her, trying to catch a glimpse of the front of the line seemingly miles way, and shifts back into her spot upon seeing the poor single barista hurriedly leaping between the drinks, sink, and cash register.

A melody loops over in the background, green guitar interwoven with…with…well, Blake can’t quite make it out. Maybe it’s her own frustration messing with her hearing, maybe she’s just too tired to really pick out what’s wrong, but something is playing out-of-synch with the coffeehouse’s soft guitar: it’s jarring, it’s loud, and it’s—

_Gold?_

Blake purses her lips; is she really hearing this? She tilts her head, trying to hear through the bustle of the café and the soft guitar for that unmistakable sound, and yes! She picks it out again, though muffled, and her heart picks up as she picks out greens and blues and pinks like small flecks, unable to quite reach her and just begging for her to find them against a confusing wash of sound.

She shakes her head and steps out of line—it’s a long way till she’s next, anyways—before making her way outside, following the sound as it lures her out of the café, into the chilly fall evening, towards the campus bar just next door. She pauses next to the glass door, that familiar melody growing nearer and stronger, colours more vivid and sounds so energetic. Desperate for an answer, she leans closer to the door, peering through the glass to see—

Her.

Behind a crowd of dark silhouettes, all moving in rhythm to the incredible music, standing on stage with that yellow guitar as blonde hair perfectly frames her excited face, is the woman from under the tree.

Blake immediately rushes into the venue, her hearing adjusting slightly as the music loudens—not harshly, though; Blake doesn’t think this music could ever be harsh. She quickly draws some money from her bag, enough to cover the door cost, and wades through a see of shadows, trying not to lose sight of the guitarist on stage surrounded by the vibrant art of her sound.

Of course, now Blake is able to notice the other people on stage with her: a shorter girl with dark red hair plays along on bass, her expression matching the blonde’s, while a tall, scarlet-haired woman stands behind a set of keys. At the back of the stage, another girl fires away at the drumkit before her, seemingly enjoying herself a bit too much but somehow not detracting from the overall sound of the band, and Blake has to do a double-take when she sees who’s heading the group: Weiss Schnee, (ex-)inheritor of Schnee Recording Label.

Blake stands, puzzled for a moment about Weiss’ involvement with the group, when her eye is drawn back to the blonde almost instinctively. She’s taken centre stage, a comically confident smile stretching across her face as she leans into her guitar, and Blake has to suppress the urge to audibly gasp at the virtuosity on display as Yang’s pick dances gracefully between each string, her fingers on the fretboard gliding back and forth fast enough to blur in her vision. She’s instantly overwhelmed by the flurry of notes, each of them clear like paint on a palette, each singing their own song yet each filling the melody, leaving no space untouched.

She feels her fingers curl against her thighs before they instinctively drum along with the music, not matching what is being played but playing invisible keys to what she sees, what is being presented to her. With each tap of her fingers against herself, she feels her own rhythm, her own music lining up with the sound of electric guitar as yellow seeps into her, guiding her fingers with the music until she can swear she’d be playing the exact same song, note-for-note, like a hand is guiding her.

The woman on stage catches her stare and flashes a toothy grin, and red flushes into her cheeks instantly. She feels her heel slip backward, drawn towards the safety of the shadows around her, but that smile keeps her in place just a moment longer. _Stay,_ it says, _you’ll miss the best parts._

So she stays.

Blake stays through the show, engrossed by the music as if it were a firework display. Though her attention hovers around the blonde guitarist (who winks and smiles a few more times throughout the night—strangely only towards her), her ears still pick up on the others’ sounds, and she doesn’t hesitate to admit that they are talented. Their styles meld together seamlessly, blended and controlled while still energized and a unique display of everyone’s talents—even the group’s bassist seems to garner ample respect during her one and only solo of the evening, something she’s picked up on by hanging around Sun doesn’t happen often.

The show finishes with a fiery song that sears Blake’s skin and fills her eyes with yellow fire wreathing the stage. Heavy. Angry. Hot. She can feel the heat creeping out from the stage, washing over her with every heavy guitar strum or explosive cymbal crash, and by the end of it all she’s just as hot and sweaty as the women on stage, her breaths laboured as she breathes in the echo of the music, clinging to the final chord in the air as the fiery colours dissipate around her.

The blonde woman takes centre stage as the other band members bow and wave and smile to their enthusiastic audience. She quickly detaches her pick from her prosthetic, tosses it into the audience with a full laugh, and Blake is only partly envious of whoever manages to catch it.

Still, the woman doesn’t leave the stage without turning once more to Blake, and this time her lilac eyes linger, hovering over her features as a smirk pulls at the corner of her lips. Blake’s tongue slides across the bottom of her own, wetting them nervously as she feels the heat returning to her cheeks. It must be the song, she thinks, because the woman’s cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink and her blonde mane glows like a warm campfire. A new song hums in her ears, not one she’s heard before but one that she swears must be for her, must be some way of knowing who this woman is. Has she heard this song?

The woman’s lilac eyes break away from Blake as Weiss Schnee taps her on the shoulder, motioning impatiently off-stage. Blake almost steps forward, and it’s purely instinctual because she doesn’t know this woman and yet she could stare into her eyes just a little bit longer, listen to that melody as it paints purple and yellow streaks between the two of them. She catches herself, her fingers curling again as the blonde nods and swiftly heads off-stage, allowing herself one more glance towards Blake before the curtains call her.

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth pensively as the crowd dissipates around her, everyone moving in different directions towards their friends, the door, the bar, and Blake moves away with them, though not without a few glances back towards the empty stage. She makes her way towards the bar, the urge to get something in her system suddenly more apparent as she orders her drink. Her fingers curl against the slippery wood of the bar, then spread as she takes a sip of her drink, pads tapping rhythmically and impatiently.

Another sip. And another. Her mind races with melodies, each one begging a question about that woman. How she managed to run into her again. Why she’s so enthralled by her. Who she is. Another sip, and a final question reaches her ears.

“So, Blake, is it?”

Blake turns in her chair, a subtle but expectant smirk on her lips. The blonde woman’s standing beside her, resting her elbow on the bar, and if Blake’s ever seen a smile so immediately welcoming, it’s nothing compared to how she beams at her.

Still, she’s cautious: it’s not always a good sign when a stranger knows your name (even if she was just ogling this stranger barely ten minutes ago). She attempts a cool smirk and hopes that she doesn’t have to worry about the woman.

“That’s me,” she says coolly, her voice low while her fingers curl around her glass. “How’d you know my name?”

The woman shrugs jokingly—an act that puts Blake somewhat more at ease. “I may have mind-reading superpowers.”

“Really now?” Blake muses. “I’ve never met a psychic. I’m not convinced.”

A bright, musical laugh escapes the blonde’s mouth as she relaxes against the counter. “One of my bandmates knows you, apparently. Weiss Schnee? She says you’ve played with her before.”

“That would be true,” she confirms. Her cool smirk eases and she offers her a much more genuine smile accentuated by a short huff of laughter. “Two for two.”

The woman lets out a silent ‘yes!’ as she pumps her fist against the bar, and Blake manages to stifle a giggle. She’s barely been talking to her for a minute—hell, she still doesn’t have her _name_ —and she’s already more comfortable around this woman than she is with most people who try to talk to her on the rare occasions she decides to go out to a bar.

She pulls her glass towards her and wraps her lips around it, finishing off her drink. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the way the woman watches her, noticing how her lilac eyes dart to her glass, how she subtly licks her own lips when Blake takes the final sip, how they train on her face as she sets the glass down.

“What do you drink?” she asks with a sudden urge of confidence.

“Sprite.” She offers a painless smile as she adds: “I’m not too big on alcohol.”

Blake smiles back and waves to the bartender, orders a Sprite for the woman and another whiskey for herself. _So far, so good,_ she thinks to herself carefully, as if the blonde actually were able to read minds; either that or Blake is just too cautious for her own good.

The woman grabs the glass and raises it between them. “What are we toasting to?”

Finally, something she feels she can answer. “To a great performance?”

There’s a flash of understanding in her lilac eyes, a moment where Blake feels that music under her skin again, hot and intense, before Yang repeats the toast with an earnest glow to her proud expression. There’s a _clink!_ of glass, a small giggle from the woman, and the harsh taste of whiskey down her throat that she braces herself as best as she can for.

Blake wants to ask, wants to know that what she saw, what she felt, was real and honest, but she stops herself just short of asking in favour of a different question ( _There’ll be time for that later,_ she tells herself as if she knows she’s going to hear that music again; she can’t not expect herself to hear it again).

So she goes for bold, spurred by the wash of whiskey matching the warmth she feels already. “So, what do I call you? Seeing as how I’m not a psychic.”

The woman snorts and manages to keep from spilling, and somehow it’s more endearing to Blake. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand and swallows her Sprite. “I’m Yang,” she says after a deep breath.

 _Yang._ Yellow flashes in her eyes again, her ears, her chest, and Yang is somehow the most perfect sound she’s heard in her life, like the world’s most sonorous melody. Yang, like the music she plays, sweet one moment and hot the next, yet never opposed, always equal. Yang, like a symphony of colour and fire and citrus and _Yang_ is what manages to send every one of Blake’s senses wild.

“Yang,” she repeats, and repeats again and again in her mind until it’s there for good, a tune she doesn’t want to forget. “It’s great to actually meet you.”

“I’m glad you stuck around this time,” Yang jokes, and Blake’s cheeks flush. Yang gives a quick laugh. “I’m also glad you liked the music. I think.” Then, in a smaller voice: “I hope.”

“How could I not?” Blake responds almost fretfully. “I’ve never heard music like yours! And, like, I study with other musicians, but your sound…that’s something else.”

“My sound?” Yang asks with a coyly-raised eyebrow.

Blake pauses; she’s tried to explain the concept before, tried to put colours and feelings and sounds into a word, but everything she tries sounds too clinical, too detached from how she actually hears the world around her.

Maybe, just for now, she supposes a genuine compliment should cover it. “Your music’s the most vivid music I’ve ever seen. _Heard!_ Heard, I mean," Blake quicly corrects; she doesn't quite have the time to unpack that just yet, though the perplexed but understanding look in Yang's eyes makes her hope it might not be so hard to tell her someday. Still, she clears her throat and opts for a safe, honest compliment. "It’s incredible.”

Despite the slip from Blake and the curious sparkle in Yang’s eyes, a smile breaks across her lips as a pink rushes to her cheeks. “You think so?” She exhales softly and looks quickly towards the stage before turning her attention back to Blake. “Maybe it’s cause I’m with a band?”

“I’ve heard bands, Yang. I’ve heard orchestras,” she affirms. And she has heard orchestras and bands with their drab oranges and confining browns and tired reds. Nothing is like the music Yang plays, of that Blake is sure.

“Well, thanks!” Yang beams before she turns and takes another sip of her sprite. When she turns back to Blake, curiosity flashes in her eyes. “You’re a musician, too, right?”

Blake pauses again, and here comes a question she can’t answer. Blake knows the answer, and it’s the reality of grey notes that keeps her opinion shadowed by her own heart, keeps it obscured from even her closest friends. “Kinda, yeah. A music _student,_ really. I’m not actually that great an actual musician.”

“Well, you can say that, but you did play with Weiss Schnee!”

 _Several times_ is another thing Blake hides, instead opting to take another burning sip of whiskey. “Not for a long time.”

Yang shrugs gently. “Weiss still knows talent. And she seemed pretty excited that you were here, so she definitely remembers you for something.” When Blake turns her gaze away—just for a second, but it’s noticeable—Yang slides her hand close to Blake’s, and though she keeps it far enough for their fingers not to touch Blake can still feel a buzz of heat. “I’m sure you’re an amazing musician, Blake.”

When she pulls her hand away, Blake is almost tempted to follow, to get to touch Yang, to see if her skin burns the same as hers. There’s still so much, maybe too much, she has to figure out, and maybe this is exactly what she needs to find the answers to questions that persist in her mind.

“Thanks. I’m—” She’s cut off by a sharp calling of _"Yang!"_ accompanied by that yellow flash she’s so quickly fallen in love with. They both turn to the source of the call and see the bassist, her instrument strapped to her back.

“Weiss says she’s gonna drive us home! Hurry up!”

“Just a sec, Rubes!” Yang calls back and turns her attention to Blake. “That’s me. Well, I mean, that’s my sister, but that’s my cue to hurry up. You don’t keep Ruby waiting.”

“Duly noted,” Blake teases.

“Hey, so you must play sometimes, right?”

Blake sits up straight, taken aback momentarily by the question. “I mean, I do—I do have a recital coming up soon. It’s going to be a disaster, though.”

Yang squints and purses her lips skeptically. “I don’t believe that. I’d love to hear you perform!”

“Yang!”

“One sec!”

Blake looks to Ruby, then to Yang, and time is running short. No excuses come to mind, no other way to let Yang go without guaranteeing she’ll see her again, and yet she knows how disastrous practice has been for the recital, how far she still has to go, and just how colourless and lifeless her music is.

“I can text you the details,” Blake blurts out and reaches for her phone, quickly unlocking it and opening a new contact before handing it quickly to Yang; bold isn’t such a bad colour on her, apparently.

Yang hesitates, glancing between the phone and Blake, before taking it in her hand and entering her information. She punctuates it all with a quick tap of her thumb and hands the phone back to Blake.

“I’m excited to hear you play!” she exclaims as she turns, then pauses, then turns back to Blake. “Thanks for the drink. I’m really glad I got to meet you finally.”

Blake smiles after her, watching her dart towards the stage door and disappear with one final glint of those purple eyes disappearing into the darkness of backstage.

For once, performance doesn’t seem like a nightmare.


	2. ...and I'll Sing It Right Back

The moment she’s in the car, Yang pulls out her phone and checks her messages. It’s silly, of course, to be checking right away for a message from a girl she just met, but is it really fair to say that they did just meet?

Yang’s grown up on music, on the songs her dad would blast through the radio while cleaning the house or that her mom would sing along to pitchily on car rides. She hears songs about ‘the night’ and ‘the one’ and love and heat and coming together, and she can’t help but think about this night.

This _one_.

She can’t help but think about the look of awe on her face that day under the tree, how Yang had wanted to call out and invite her to listen but decided against it—no, she wouldn’t break that spell. She can’t help but think about seeing those familiar amber eyes peering out through a mass of black shadows, connecting in that moment from stage, and can’t help but think about how familiar it was to catch the wonder in those eyes.

If Yang has a song—a _sound_ —she’s sure it must be about Blake.

‘Blake’.

It’s simple, but Yang already feels she can write a million songs about it.

A sudden pressure against her shoulder jolts her to reality, and she quickly locks her phone screen. Ruby presses up against her, a devilish smirk crossing her face.

“So,” she begins smugly, “who was that you were at the bar with?”

“No one! Nothing!” She pauses, and when Ruby doesn’t let up, she adds in a lower voice: “I’m sure you’d love to know!”

“Yes, I would!” Ruby retorts instantly, suddenly pressed closer against Yang’s side.

“Ruby,” Pyrrha - ever the polite friend - warns in a tone not unfamiliar to Ruby and her antics, turning around from the passenger seat to press her lips sternly together.

“Her name’s Blake,” Weiss interjects from the front seat. “Tease away.” Yang shoots a glare towards Weiss, though she knows she probably can’t see it. 

Ruby’s eyes flash with a mix of delight and trickery, and a smile pulls across her face. “Oooh, her name’s _Blake!_ ”

“Weiss!”

“What? Yang was being stubborn,” Weiss retorts defensively, and Pyrrha lets out a defeated moan.

Ruby pulls away from Yang with a chortle, and Yang can feel heat rising in her cheeks, matching the bright shade of her sleeveless hoodie. Yang doesn’t quite get it—after all, Ruby knows this isn’t the first girl Yang’s been into—and she keeps her eyes glued to the back of Weiss’ head as she nervously keeps the screen of her phone in her periphery.

When Ruby’s laughter settles, she leans back into the seat with one final sigh, a content smile persisting. “I think she’s really pretty,” she says quietly, sincerely.

Yang nods; pretty is an understatement, of course, but she can’t tell Ruby she’s met the world’s most objectively beautiful woman tonight. Blake must be some kind of supermodel, and Yang can absolutely see her face in photos, in galleries, on poppy album covers where the amber of her eyes drown out every other colour around her into a crowded shadow.

Her fingers curl around the phone in her hand and the thought of Blake stays, sticks to the walls of her memory like that song she can’t get out of her head, lyrics on her tongue, and it’s so tempting to sing them aloud. Screw it, Blake is a song in Yang’s ears, a tune she hums along to, words like poetry on the edge of a chord.

“Yeah, she is,” is all Yang can manage without spilling more.

Yang catches the blue of Weiss’ eyes in the rearview mirror as she peers back at them. “And she’s a fantastic musician, in addition.”

Ruby purses her lips. “How do you know?” Then, with a more suspicious tone: “What are you hiding, Weiss?”

“It’s hardly a secret, Ruby,” Weiss begins. “When I was younger, Blake used to accompany me for some of my performances. Until, of course, my father told me I couldn’t perform with her anymore.” She explains this with a solemn look in her eyes, one that draws Pyrrha’s hand to her thigh and prompts curiosity in Yang. 

“What do you mean?” Yang’s interest in this mysterious ‘Blake’ has been piqued since the moment she saw her from under that tree, since the moment she picked her out of a crowd, since the moment Yang’s name rolled off her tongue as if Blake had waited her whole life to say that word and Yang has waited her whole life to hear it.

“He didn’t want me playing with someone who came from a family of ruffians.” Yang catches the slight fall of her shoulders, and when she continues it’s in a much lower, quieter, and almost uneasy voice. “Nor did he want me playing with someone he thought would turn me gay.”

Yang’s stomach sinks; so her and Blake must’ve been close, if Weiss had had enough of a close relationship with her that her father suspected they were into each other (clearly he was right about his daughter being gay, and it was the only thing Jacques got right about Weiss in his entire miserable life).

“Well, did she?” Pyrrha asks, and Yang can pick up instantly on the deep affection in her voice.

“Obviously not,” Weiss says with a light huff and a quick, flirty glance towards Pyrrha. “My father was never the most astute when it came to literally anything about anyone else. I was gay long before I met Blake.”

‘Blake’.

There’s mystery in the name, and there’s history in the name, and Yang jitters at how thrilling it would be to unravel her note by note, find where those lyrics and that melody came from and where they might lead.

She looks back at her phone excitedly: still no text. 

Yang’s always the one to text first if she gives her number, but it’s up to Blake to text first, and Yang’s heart pounds against her chest rhythmically at a wild tempo at the thought that she’s maybe being stupid about all this, that maybe she’s fallen head over heels for the wrong girl.

Ruby draws Yang out of her trance with a delighted giggle. “Did you two ever date?”

Weiss scoffs indignantly. “Ruby, Pyrrha’s literally right here.”

“No, I’m curious, too,” Pyrrha says, coercing the answer from Weiss with glistening eyes and a sincere smile even Yang couldn’t say no to.

“Fine, but that was years ago! I was still in high school, and by the time I realized how I felt it was already too late. Besides,” and the light turns green, and that ‘besides’ grabs Yang’s attention, “it wouldn’t have worked out. Blake isn’t exactly _my_ type.”

The coy glance Yang catches again in the rearview isn’t lost on her, nor is the meaning of the look.

“So Yang, did you get her number?” Weiss prods curiously as she faces the road again.

“Nope, but she got mine.” Yang waggles her phone for emphasis, checking quickly to see if a text notification has popped up and containing a small sigh when her screen shows only her _CFVY_ wallpaper.

Her sister’s eyes light up as she grins, mouth agape, apparently oblivious to the beat of nervousness that had come over Yang. “No way! Yang! Are you gonna ask her out?”

“We have plans,” she says in her best attempt to be cool, but them having plans is true. Mostly true, at least. She keeps waiting eagerly for the buzz in the palm of her hand, lightly squeezing her phone in anticipation. Yang wants to hear Blake’s sound more than anything right now, and waiting for that cue from her feels like the moment before the set starts, with lights beaming down on her and the band, anticipated murmurs from the crowd static in the air as she readies her fingers against the strings, waiting for the _go!_

* * *

“Sun, it’s for sure an emergency!”

Blake slides against the practice room door in defeat, her body heavy with the after-effect of panic. Her fingers curl far too tightly around her phone pressed against her cheek and ear, and her eyes warn her of imminent tears.

Finally meeting Yang had been a lot, to say the least. Blake had grown far too familiar with exhaustion stiffening her fingers and dread pulling at her throat, and getting to finally discover the name of the woman who’d first caught her ear, getting to talk to her—and listening to her talk, like an aria in Blake’s ears—had been breathtaking, _life-changing_. She could swear to seeing colours and sounds so incredibly new and distinct, managing to set fire to all of Blake’s senses with such simplicity.

And clearly it’s been far too long since Blake has stepped out of her comfort zone (‘ _And why should I?’_ she questions, knowing the answer already but too afraid to acknowledge it. She knows what the world is like when she does.) Her performances are static: she sits at the bench of her piano in front of students and profs, all of which congratulate her with grey words that hide their apathy or, more commonly, their judgement.

She plunks out notes on her instrument, their sound ringing around her but stopping dead in the air before she even hears it. She hides her small mistakes with quick note changes but betrays them with her own scowls, and when it’s finished and she’s sweat through her makeup and her foot finally leaves the pedal, she’s forgotten every note she just played.

She can’t let Yang hear that.

That was the realization she’d made far too late after leaving the bar. She hadn’t stayed long after Yang had left, downing her whiskey quickly before hurrying back to her stifled practice room, heat crackling under her skin and the scent of citrus buzzing faintly like a cloying perfume. Every sense had been lit like a match, sizzling with energy, and it unfortunately wasn’t until she thumbed through her contacts down to ‘Yang’ and began typing the details into a new message that she stopped, turned her phone off, and began running through every disastrous scenario in her head.

Sun groans on the other end. _“It’s not an emergency, Blake! I think she genuinely wants to hear you play!”_

“But what if I fuck up?” she moans. “I could play the wrong note or forget to turn the page or get distracted by-”

“ _B_ _lake._ ” Sun’s tone is stern, serious; Blake knows he means business when that fluttering stops, so she stops too. “ _You’re nervous, I get that. Last performance didn’t go so great. But you can do it, I promise._ ” She doesn’t respond, knowing very well what Sun’s pep-talks are like, knows how he means well and knows how they don’t always get to her. “ _And I know_ ,” he continues after silence, _“that you’re pretty into Yang._ ”

“What do you mean by ‘into Yang’?” Blake scoffs, another lie she’s not capable of hiding.

“ _Well duh! You were basically giving her heart-eyes the first time you ever saw her, and now you’re afraid of messing up a performance in front of her! And, like, didn’t you just tell me that you basically musically connected while she was on-stage or something like that?_ ”

Blake rolls her eyes; he’s right about all of that. The heart-eyes, the musical connection, the ‘being into Yang’. It’s not her fault that listening to Yang’s music is like coming to life all over again, and it’s a different life where every good thing happens instead of the bad. And Blake’s known too much bad, she’s made too many mistakes and ruined too many chances at happiness.

Maybe it’s a life she’s tempted to pursue, to see what those colours mean and what those sounds have to say.

“If you had seen what I had seen, Sun, you’d understand why I’m so interested in her,” she says with a sigh.

Sun chuckles lightly, and that orange fluttering returns. “ _You’re probably right. I can’t see what you see. But maybe you can show Yang?”_

Blake purses her lips, her brow knitted in confusion. “What? I can’t mind-meld my synesthesia, Sun.”

“ _But, like, how cool would it be if you could_ _?!_ ” Sun chirps enthusiastically, the fluttering orange of his voice slowly returning. “ _It could be, like, your very own superpower!_ ”

She snickers into the phone. “Right. Of course.”

“ _What I really meant, though, is play for Yang. Play for her and her only at the performance. Imagine there’s no one else in the audience except for her,”_ Sun explains gently, and his idea makes a bit of sense, actually. Her memory reminds her of how intimate it felt to tune into Yang’s music at the bar, how easy it was to drown out the grey and black surrounding her and be in a world with only her. It couldn’t be so hard imagining Yang is the only one she’s performing for.

Except it is. Blake faces the reality of performance again, of scathing eyes watching her deft fingers travel across the keys, anticipating a mistake they can claw at her for. What if Yang watches for that? What if she plays for Yang, shows her the colours and sound she sees, and it’s grey and lifeless and disappointing?

“ _You’re quiet again, Blake_.” Sun’s voice shakes her back to reality— _actual_ reality—and she lets her head fall back against the door.

“I’m sorry, Sun,” she admits. “I don't think do it.”

“ _Well, alright._ ” Sun’s quick to react, and his voice is lighter than it really should be, a brighter orange than before. “ _B_ _ut try and do me a favour: imagine a good performance. Imagine playing for Yang like you want to—and don’t put yourself down!”_

A good performance. To Blake, it’s such a foreign idea, so buried beneath reds and greys and too much regret, too many mistakes. It’s obscured by tensed fingers and wet piano keys moments after a breakdown. And it’s there, far far below but _there._

Gold.

Familiar gold. Fingers gliding effortlessly across every note, colours mixing into a collage she’s weaving, and she doesn’t remember ever being this happy when on-stage, doesn’t remember how much gold there was while playing. She can’t remember what piece it was (she’s played too many pieces to remember them all), but she can reach that performance, touch and hear the vibrant picture she’s painting herself, and _god_ does she want to show Yang.

She wants to share this picture, this music, wants to see if Yang can see it too, wants to know if that connection is mutual. There are so many people who hear her and applaud but don’t hear _her_ , and now she thinks, hopes, _dreams_ that Yang will hear her.

“Thanks, Sun. I think I'm gonna practice a bit more.”

“ _Don't stay up too late_ _!”_ Sun whoops before hanging up.

Blake sighs; she must be desperate, otherwise she wouldn’t be texting Yang and racing back to the bench, fingers resting against white keys and ready to practice again.

* * *

It’s maybe the twentieth time her phone’s buzzed since she got home, but Yang still grabs for it with uncontained excitement. Of course she rolls her eyes and puts it down when she sees Weiss’ name flash across her screen—the _tenth_ time tonight she’s texted Yang with another celebratory selfie with Pyrrha—and it’s around now that the worry starts to set in.

Yang’s forward, of course. She’s been forward with a lot of girls, right into getting their name and texting them and going out for dinner and figuring out why exactly their lips taste like.

Blake’s different.

Of course, part of that is that Yang was too awestruck by _her_ to even get her number after offering her own up. Still, there’s a part of her that can’t stop shaking at the thought of her, at the melody playing in the fringes of her voice. It’s like a missing chord, a riff she just can’t get right on her own. She plays for years and years trying to get that one song right and there’s just that one part that doesn’t quite sound fulfilled or complete. 

There. 

That’s where Blake fits. That’s what Blake’s sound must be. 

Then there’s a part of her that’ll wait. She’s played music for years, made sounds and songs from nothing but her own heart pulsing in her fingers and pouring all of her thoughts and feelings into each string. Blake’s sound feels like the missing part of some melody, but if she’s gone this long without it she supposes she can wait as long as it takes to complete that song. She’ll still have every other song in her ears, after all.

Ruby bobs into the room, idly chewing on a slice of cold pizza before directing her attention over to Yang. “She still hasn’t texted?”

Yang sighs heavily. “I’m sure she’s asleep or something.” It’s a bit of a lame excuse, but Yang’s been diverting her disappointment away with them almost her whole life at this point.

Ruby hums and pads over to sit opposite Yang on the couch, taking another bite of her pizza as she pulls her legs up against her chest. “Maybe,” Ruby humours her through her stuffed mouth. “Wanna watch a movie about it?”

Yang’s chest still feels fluttery, her mind unable to land on what she thinks she should be thinking or feeling right now, but Ruby’s always known how to pull her out of her own head. She readjusts herself on the couch and passes the remote to Ruby, who begins scrolling through all of the many options presented to them that they’ve either already seen or that don’t sound interesting in any way; Yang all the while checks her phone a twenty-first time, rolls her eyes at the most recent ‘Schneekos’ selfie (she can’t fault Weiss for getting more comfortable with PDA ever since getting with Pyrrha, but in this moment it stings just a bit more).

Just as she’s about to put it away and contribute to choosing a movie, her screen blinks with another notification, this one from an unfamiliar number. Yang opens the message before she’s even had a chance to preview it, and yes! 

_Hey, it’s Blake_

_Uuhhh recital details_

_…_

Yang quickly types in a swift, excited greeting before adding Blake to her contacts, adding a piano emoji next to her name. When she returns to the message, the details are all there for her - time, day, location, the snacks the reception is going to have - and Yang saves them into her calendar.

_awesome !!_

_sounds like it’ll be a fun time : )_

_Well only if you consider Debussy a good time_

_Which i do_

_So yeah it will be aslkfjlsakjf_

_oooh debussy, sounds cool ! 👀_

_is there required listening ?_

_Not really_

_Don’t wanna set your expectations too high_

_okay okay_

_i’ll dial them back lmao_

_i’m still super excited tho : )_

_Yeah_

_Me too aha_

By the time Yang sets the phone down, her mind has finally settled on a feeling, a _sound_ , and it’s a melodic laughter she can’t help but indulge as her head lulls back against the cushion. She takes in deep, sweet breaths to support her giggling as her heart pounds against her chest, and she clutches her phone close to it as if keeping it there won’t do anything to make it beat harder. She’s in a rhythm now, a tempo set by the thought that even _talking_ to Blake is enough to make her sing, and the lyrics sit on her tongue.

They’re simple, of course, but she says them over and over.

Time.

Date.

Location.

_Blake._

It’s the sweetest song she’s sung all night.

Whatever movie it is that Ruby’s picked, Yang hardly pays attention to it (it’s something about cars and explosions and The Rock - normally the type of movie Yang would have seen anyways; her attention is entirely on her phone, on the back and forth between Blake and the music that buzzes in the back of her mind like a soundtrack to their conversation. 

Ruby falls asleep halfway through, and the hum of the movie drifts into the background, and Yang would normally turn it off and carry Ruby to bed at this point, but she’s hardly noticed - when she does, the credits are halfway finished and Ruby’s snoring soundly, and it’s all still quieter than the music that plays in her mind.

She pulls a blanket over Ruby and turns the tv and lights off before padding quickly to get ready for bed. Every moment she’s not talking to Blake feels rushed, urgent, like the music will stop if she lets it sit for too long. 

Thankfully, when she slides into bed and goes back to her phone, Blake is still there, and they keep talking about music and life and colour.

The rhythm eventually fades when Yang’s eyes pull closed tiredly, delivering a final note of ‘goodnight’ to Blake before sleep finds her, and when her dreams come they’re accompanied by the same beautiful song.

‘Blake'.


	3. ...and Blow Me Away

With the exception of Velvet tinkering with recording equipment backstage, Blake is the only person in this small, empty hall.

Sometimes, the silence makes it easier to rehearse. Without a flurry of colours flying in her vision from the echoing voices of others, she can focus on the colours - dull as they may be - that she produces. The splattering of vaguely-tinted greys that sound from the piano are familiar to her now; though they may have lost their colour some time ago, she’s tuned her eyes and ears well enough to tell them apart, which unfortunately also lets her know exactly when she plays the wrong key.

One discordant note sullies the melody and Blake’s hands retreat from the keys, as if suddenly aflame and scorching the tips of her fingers; as soon as it happens, a rumbling A thunders in her ears, and crimson flashes in her vision. Her face goes flush, pale, and she braces the piano for support as the blood rushes back to her head, her vision going dark until clearing again.

Velvet pokes her head from inside the recording booth with perked-up eyebrows. “You doing alright, Blake? Need me to get you a water?”

“Yeah, water,” Blake nods hazily. “Water would be nice, thanks.”

Velvet grins and slides back into the booth before vanishing out the side door. Blake lets out a sigh and lets the ring of the incorrect note fade into the darkness of the hall, melting into the heavy silence until it’s just her and her thoughts.

_ "Another mistake,”  _ her mind chastises her, and though she’s not sure if it’s his voice or not, it leaves her feeling flushed and sick.

By this point she  _ knows _ a proper pianist rolls through mistakes, puts them behind them as just an echo no one will remember. She used to do that a lot more, too, but between the way her mind punishes her for them -  _ clings _ to them with cloying vehemence and retribution - and the way they burn into her vision of colours, it’s been harder and harder to manage. At this point, not making mistakes is the only way she can keep performing.

Though, of course, she doesn’t make them often. Tonight’s recital just happens to be extra special - which, unfortunately, makes it extra stressful.

Apart from only barely managing the Ravel, she’s still clinging to that ideal performance as her mind relentlessly tears it down. She hopes she can show Yang how well she can actually play, hopes live up to her expectations and the hype she’s been giving her all week in their texts (she even showed Blake what she’d be wearing tonight, and it’s just another thing to worry about now that ‘staring at Yang’ might be another reason she could screw up). 

Her fingers fall against the keys again, resulting in a palette of colourful greys and a discordant ring. She’d like to believe what Sun told her, but all it does is set the expectations higher. At this point, despite how  _ mostly _ ready her pieces are, it feels like she’s still finding small details she’s overlooked, ways to paint the canvas she has before with musicality she’s slowly been losing her grip on. She tucks her dry bottom lip between her teeth and sips in a hissed breath; she can’t let herself get hung up on those details when the recital is in a few hours, and she knows it.

(Though she could certainly use someone to tell her overworked, overactive, overcritical mind that.) 

Velvet quickly returns with a cup of water that Blake chugs ardently. She closes her eyes and lets the water cool her fraying nerves and drown her invasive thoughts before exhaling heavily. “Thanks, Velv.”

Velvet beams at her. “Not a problem!” A beat passes between them, and Velvet’s expression falls. “Blake, maybe you should take a little break? You’re pushing yourself again.” When Blake responds by staring blankly ahead, still trying to process what she’s saying while her mind cools, Velvet lips pinch together and her brow creases in concern. “If you burn yourself through before the recital you’ll be running on fumes.”

Blake sighs. “I know, but the recital’s tonight and I’m still making mistakes.  _ Claire de Lune _ should be a lot more beautiful than it is.”

“Blame Debussy for that.”

“I will do no such thing,” Blake counters indignantly. “Debussy is perfect as is. It’s me making the mistakes and ruining his music, Velvet.”

“Well I think it sounds spectacular. Look, everyone makes mistakes,” Velvet says. “Even Coco makes mistakes, and she’s on scholarship.”

A small huff of laughter escapes Blake’s lips; if Velvet’s pulling her own girlfriend down to their level, she’s clearly being sincere. 

“I guess tonight’s a little bit different,” Blake begins, already feeling the ring of gold in the back of her mind and indulging in the way it pulls the tiredness from her heavy eyelids.

Velvet’s ears perk up and she slides onto the bench beside Blake with avid curiosity. “Oh? Is someone  _ special _ invited?”

“You are  _ remarkably _ intuitive,” Blake comments dryly.

“Maybe so,” Velvet responds with a playful roll of her shoulders, “or maybe Sun told me about ‘Yang’.”

Gold flashes were crimson once swam, beautiful and resplendent as it has been every time the name fills her ears, and it’s far too beautiful a colour to even be mad that Sun’s apparently been going around telling their friends about her stressful little crush.

Velvet’s giggle - sonorous, bubbling, stitched with a delicate, sandy brown that melts into the gold of her vision - brings her out of the momentary trance. “Are you going to wear something nice for her?”

“It’s a performance. Of course I’m going to wear something nice.”

“Alright, alright,” Velvet muses in a suspicious tone that Blake can’t help but feel she’s picked up from hanging out with Coco. “Well, your performances are always beautiful, Blake. And if you’re playing to impress a girl, I’m sure it’s just going to be even sweeter.”

Blake huffs dubiously. “That’s what Sun said, but that just made rehearsing even  _ more _ stressful.” Her eyes fall back to the keyboard, to the instrument of her anxiety, and she imagines that gold tainted by grey and by red. “I can’t help but wonder ‘what if I’m not good enough for her’?”

“Well,” Velvet begins, “if you’re not good enough for her, then at the very least you’ll never have to stress about playing for her again. But I doubt it’ll come to that.” She leans closer to Blake and offers her a gentle smile. “Just play your music as best you can and I know you’ll amaze her.”

“Right. Right, you’re right.” Blake can taste the bitterness in her concession, knowing she’s only agreeing with Velvet so that she doesn’t have to admit how frightening it is to think that Yang will be content with mediocrity and mistakes riddling her music.

“You’re going to be amazing, Blake, and she’s going to be amazed,” Velvet says as she stands, offering Blake one final look of encouragement before turning back to her booth. “I can’t wait to meet her!”

Once Velvet’s away, Blake closes the piano and rests her arms against the fall board, her head swimming with all the possibilities - hopeful and cynical - of tonight. How she’s ever going to even manage this performance, she’s not entirely sure, but at the very least she owes it to her audience to make something of these sounds.

And she definitely owes it to Yang not to sound so miserable; the last thing she wants to do is give that beautiful smile of hers any reason to falter.

* * *

Time.

7:30 p.m. (Though, of course, Yang arrives ten minutes early.)

Date.

Friday, September 28th.

Location.

Coal Music Hall and Annex. (Apparently named after Flynt Coal, the famous alumnus who keeps donating to the faculty’s jazz program.)

_ This is the place _ , Yang supposes as she steps off the bus and makes the quick walk to the address Blake gave her, a bouquet of flowers tucked under her arm that she hopes the wind hasn’t whipped at too much (a cursory check confirms they’re safe, and a quick shuffling makes them picture-perfect again).

Even after years of attending university here, Yang’s still discovering new places she’d never seen before, including the large square slab of a concrete building she’s parked outside of. A set of stone stairs lead up to an array of glass doors, the words ‘ _ Williams Faculty of Music’ _ set as a decal across each of them, beyond which Yang can see a small crowd loitering in the lobby; their ages range from ‘college freshman’ to ‘unbelievably senior’, and most of them are dressed fairly casually.

Yang grimaces and glances down at her own outfit that Weiss had helped her pick out -  _ “you  _ can’t _ show up to Blake’s recital looking like a hooligan!” she’d reprimanded before Yang had even considered her outfit _ \- wondering if the button-up shirt and blazer she’s wearing are maybe too much now.

(At the very least, she at least hopes Blake actually likes the look and wasn't just lying to be polite.)

Yang adjusts her collar and steels herself with a deep breath; despite having spent the past few days texting Blake almost non-stop, this is the first time she’ll be seeing her in person again. Of course she’s going to be a bit nervous, but excitement boils alongside that anxiety into a medley of rushed heartbeats and uneven breaths. The night they’d met (and every day thereafter), Blake had been sure to downplay her own talent, and tonight Yang is going to hear her play for the first time and hopefully have plenty more reasons to try and oppose those feelings. 

At the very least, Yang had heard from Weiss about Blake’s talent - sure, maybe it’d been a few years since they’d last played together, but Yang can hardly believe that Blake’s gotten any  _ worse _ .

Once inside, Yang idles in the foyer, feeling maybe just a little awkward being the only single person there set between groups of students, profs, and old people, and so she moves herself closer to one of the empty tables with a paper reading ‘For Reception’ taped to it. A music stand is set nearby displaying a pile of pamphlets that people seem to be taking an interest in; Yang figures it’s probably something she should check out at some point.

She sets the bouquet down on the table momentarily and slips her phone out of her pocket, thumbing quickly to Blake’s contact.

_ here now !! super excited !! _

_ break a leg  _

_ i know you’re gonna be great : ) _

She doesn’t bother waiting for a response, reasoning that Blake’s probably backstage or warming up or doing something more important than answering her texts, so she’s surprised when Blake texts back a quick  _ ‘thank you!’ _ , though no less delighted. Her lips pull into an excited grin and she pockets her phone again.

Maybe she’s most excited about getting to just see Blake again, she considers, but she doesn’t entertain the idea too long. Or, rather, she doesn’t quite get the opportunity as a smartly-dressed young woman with a messy brown bun, big round glasses, and a floppy set of rabbit ears opens the door nearest to the small crowd, holding it open as she holds a clipboard to her chest.

This is it.

Yang follows the crowd as they’re let into the hall, glancing at the papers on the music stand before realizing they’re programs and snagging on for herself. The cover is plain, with the faculty’s logo printed at the top and the title  _ ‘Blake Belladonna: A Night in Paris’  _ in bold print in the center.

“Hey!” the woman greets in a thick accent Yang can’t exactly place. “Are you a music student?”

“Oh, no. I’m just here for Blake.”

The woman beams at her. “You must be Yang! You’re in for a treat tonight.”

Yang blinks at her, perplexed. “Do I have, like, a reservation or something?”

Her own stare is matched by the woman’s, who takes a moment to think before saying, “Oh, sorry. Just running my mouth again. Blake told me you’d be coming is all. She was...she seemed excited!”

Well, that’s more than enough to send Yang’s heart racing and her cheeks sizzling with blush. Yang nervously chuckles as her hand finds its way to the back of her neck, burrowed into her freshly-brushed golden mane. “Well, glad to know she’s excited.”

“Absolutely! I hope you enjoy the recital,” the woman says, gesturing Yang inside. Before Yang can oblige, though, she leans in almost conspiratorially and says, “I’m sure she’ll love the flowers.”

Yang presses the flowers closer to her side; somehow the notion of being perceived like this makes her racing heart beat only quicker, so she slips into the hall and hopes she’s not giving herself completely away to Blake’s friends.

Presented with rows of blue-cushioned seats, Yang ignores that most of the younger audience is seated towards the middle and back, instead finding a seat towards the front where she’s sure she’ll be able to see Blake better. She squeezes past two older men, each of them writing in the programs with stern glowers, and takes her seat.

Her own program sits in her lap, though when Yang looks around the stage there’s not much to indicate a ‘Paris’ setting. Still, she opens the folded paper and skims through the list of pieces on the inside, catching herself on the ‘Op.’s and the French names she’d have quite a time trying to say; she’ll definitely have to ask Blake later about how ‘Saint-Saens’ is pronounced.

The house lights go down before she has a chance to read any further, and the buzz of chatter that had filled the hall before quickly dies down. Yang sets her program down and directs her attention immediately to the stage, her heart rattling in her chest with an anticipation she only otherwise feels before she’s about to perform. 

_ This is it, _ she thinks, leaning forward in her seat as her anticipation builds between every thump of her racing heart and held tight in every quick breath.

Footfalls echo from the stage, and before she even sees Blake come out onto stage Yang has already begun her exuberant cheer through a cupped hand, only managing to draw several scowls from the older audience and stifled giggles from the younger. She peers around as her hand falls to her lap, trying to figure out what’s so funny, but when her eyes fall back to the stage she sees someone who surely isn’t Blake holding a microphone and a paper. Yang sinks into her seat as a hot blush burns her cheeks, hoping maybe she didn’t make a  _ complete  _ ass of herself.

The woman reads through a few introductory lines, thanking faculty donors and prefacing the performance with a rundown of the program before stepping away, all while Yang thinks forward to actually hearing the pieces. She still feels eyes on her, convinced she’s probably broken some recital etiquette rules or something, and between her heart going a mile a minute and her mind keeping her on-edge for what she’s really here for, she’s acutely aware of how wired her entire body is.

This is more than any stage fright that she’s ever had, and yet she reckons it’ll all be worth the anxiety and excitement and embarrassment.

And it is worth it, Yang decides right then and there, when Blake steps onto the stage and the hall erupts into applause.

Yang’s mouth goes dry, and even the sound of the applause around her is drowned out by the pounding drumbeat in her ears, in-rhythm with Blake’s steps. She’s absolutely  _ stunning _ , dressed in a floor-length dark purple gown which almost seems to catch the golden stage lights in the rising folds of the skirt, her eyes sparkling and lively in a way Yang can’t help but be utterly transfixed by.

Blake stops at the piano and turns to the audience, beaming a wide smile at them before taking a deep bow; when she lifts back up, she catches Yang’s eye, and she can swear for a moment Blake almost stops. She knows it’s Blake under stagelight right now, but she can’t help but feel the rush of warmth to her cheeks she normally attributes to the stage. She raises her hand in a quick wave that’s shyer than Yang’s used to giving, and Blake’s eyes sparkle just a bit more as she finishes her bow and sits down at the piano bench.

The hall falls silent as Blake stares at the music in front of her, the only sound piercing through the deep breath she takes. Yang feels her own breath catch in her throat, stuck in the moment as if even letting it out would shatter the moment, break Blake’s concentration. She’s careful, curious, and she curls her fingers against her knee as she watches Blake’s hands come up to the white keys before her.

The first few notes Blake plays are some of the most beautiful Yang’s heard in her life.

They lift out of the piano, hovering in the hall with a short ring that preludes the following notes yet leaves no silence between them. Yang can’t help but feel the music draw her in, as though the twinkling sound of the piano is drawing her by the collar, her eyes attentive and her mouth agape. She watches Blake’s hands rest against the keys, pressing down on them with such ease and little force behind each stroke - she pays specific attention to a small flick of her pinky at the end of a chord, sending the note ringing into the hall where it precedes a gentle silence, and she pays even more specific attention to the small look of satisfaction Blake wears as it fades.

Blake draws her in, eyes closed and jaw set, as the music picks up in tempo, quick bridging notes creating a low rumble of energy beneath the piece’s smooth melody, pushing it forward as Blake leans into each stroke, each measure, each sound she produces. Yang finds herself leaning, too, pushing through the sound as if in-synch with Blake’s energy, transfixed by the atmosphere of sound and sight isolated from noise and perception. It’s just Blake on that stage, elegant and sure, surrounded by the echo of the beautiful piece she plays, and Yang’s more than content to keep it that way.

The piece builds to a climactic point that has Yang practically gasping for the air the rest of Blake’s music had taken from her lungs, and just as beautifully does it fall from the crescendo into the faintest, softest melody once again. Blake hovers over the keys of the piano, keeping herself close to the keys as her eyes drift open and closed as if she were waking from a dream. Yang can feel her own lungs filling again, slowly taking back the air as she finds herself drifting back into the cushioning of her seat.

A breathless silence is the coda to Blake’s final notes, and she pulls herself away from the keys with a furrowed brow and a tense jaw that both relax when the first round of applause overtakes the hall. Yang joins the applause, chiming in with her own whoops and whistles of her own without regard for the irritated glances it draws from the two men in her row.

Blake stands and takes another bow, and this time she lets her gaze linger in Yang’s for just a breath longer. Yang reads her expression, clearly wracked by a nervousness she’s come to expect of her -  _ was it worth the applause?  _ she asks - and Yang does her best to reassure her with a smile of her own -  _ it was beautiful, _ she answers.

* * *

After the third round of applause, Blake is finally confident that she can stay backstage and catch her breath without having to go back out on stage and bow.

She sets herself down on one of the old wooden chairs backstage and lets out a momentous sigh. She did it. She got through her first recital of the term without breaking down or skipping notes with a rumble of red to warn her of her failures. It’s almost breathtaking, she thinks, how much she was able to push through the grey and perform with astounding technique learned over her many years of performance and practice that she knows she can always fall back on, but she knows she owes so much more to the gold woven into her music as she played through each piece.

All of this is thanks to Yang, of course, and Sun had been right

She can’t say her notes hadn’t felt lighter anytime she glanced over to see Yang beaming sincerely at her in the front row, nor can she say her notes had been a dull grey for most of the show. They’d first been gold, what she could obviously expect of herself playing for Yang, but had slowly shifted between pieces, displaying to her a medley of colour she’d surely thought lost long ago in monochrome vision that she can only attribute to her own stage anxiety.

_ Play for her _ , Blake had thought as her fingers had struck the keys, and it had paid off.

She’s quick to rush backstage, scooping her daytime clothes into a bundle and scurrying off to the bathroom to change. With all of her friends likely already out in the foyer for the reception, she’s sure Velvet’s told them about Yang and she dreads how much they might be pestering her right now in Blake’s absence, but even still she allows herself a moment to breathe, to sigh away the residual adrenaline of performing, and to linger on the sight and sound of gilded music as it plays delicately in her memory.

Blake finds herself brushing the notes she sees along her bare arms, matching the sound without even realizing it. Even looking in the vanity mirror, long after these notes have truly rung out into silence, Blake still hears and feels them enveloping her, wrapped around her shoulders and cradling her chin like the sound that now so beautifully vexes her.

Her skin buzzes with warmth under her own touch, an excitement that soon brings her out of the momentary spell to finish dressing herself, her cheeks and chest flushed. She’s certainly not going to read into that, not now at least. The last thing she wants to do is throw herself at something new and exciting and invigorating only to burn herself out again. There’s enough red in her to keep her cautious for now.

She steps out of the bathroom and enters the foyer, where she’s immediately greeted with another round of applause and a chorus of congratulations from her friends and colleagues. She’s become adept at moving through these crowds in her years as a performer; she knows exactly how long to stand and say ‘thank you’ for, what to say to move a quick chat along, how not to broadcast how uncomfortable the noise and the lack of space make her.

Of course, all that goes out the window when she sees Yang standing on the other end of the snack table, nibbling on a large M&M cookie with a bouquet of flowers under her arm. Blake watches her for a moment, mouth dry as she parses how to approach her and what to say -  _ ‘thank you’ _ hardly seems like enough, but she doesn’t want to sound too affected by Yang showing up and colouring in the lines of her music (despite what that little experience a moment ago might tell her); she hardly has time to decide, though, as Yang catches her gaze. She quickly places her cookie down on a napkin, lightly brushes her fingers against her jeans, and approaches Blake with the most endearing, brilliant smile.

_ Gods, _ Blake muses, her stomach twisting and her breaths racing,  _ why does she have to be so cute? _

“Blake!” Yang exclaims as she closes the distance, opening her arms for a hug before pulling back with an anxious chuckle. “Wow, I’m...I’m blown away!”

“In a good way, right?” Blake says with a chuckle, though she knows it only hides her very real trepidation. 

“In an  _ amazing _ way!” Yang’s smile crooks nervously and she adds with her own small laugh, “I think you had me crying at one point.”

Blake’s cheeks run warm again, though this time she hardly tries to hide it. “Well, thank you. I hope it was a good cry.”

“It was,” Yang assures her. “I loved it, Blake. You’re...wow, I’m still speechless.” Her eyes glisten before she speaks again, and the lilac in her smile is another colour Blake can’t help but latch onto with ardent fascination. “You’re incredible.”

Incredible.

It’s not a word Blake’s unfamiliar with; for years, she’s been lauded as a prodigy, with talent and skill beyond many of her colleagues, and incredible often finds its way into the mix of compliments that are consumed by the grey around herself. But now, woven in strands of gold and bolstered by flecks of lilac, it means more than she’s ever felt.

“Thank you,” Blake repeats, softer this time, as she lets herself feel the word in her core.

Silence sits between them, uncoloured but comfortable as Blake processes the compliment, before Yang almost jumps suddenly and reaches for the bouquet under her arm.

“Oh! Before I forget!” she stammers as she presents the flowers to Blake. “This is what you do for fancy piano players, right?”

Blake laughs as she takes the flowers. “Well, I’d hardly call myself ‘fancy’-”

“Oh please, that dress was literally fancier than anything I’ll ever own!”

Blake laughs again, and her cheeks stay warm, and the sincerity of this moment mixes so beautifully with the colours still playing in her memory. “I don’t know about that, Yang. That’s a pretty nice jacket. Definitely looks much nicer in-person.”

Yang rolls her shoulders and cocks an eyebrow, allowing Blake to take in the outfit. “Yeah, I guess I’m pretty stylish.” She accentuates her point by thumbing her lapel and flashing Blake a confident wink, which obviously earns another laugh from Blake.

“I’d say,” Blake agrees. “And you have great taste in bouquet arrangements.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping it wouldn’t make me too much of a dork,” Yang says with mock relief. “Can’t really be a cool rockstar if you’re also into flowers, huh?”

“Lucky for you, rockstar, I happen to like dorks.”

Yang smiles softly at her, and once again comfortable silence stretches between them, and Blake revels in the silence as more than just a reprieve from a life of endless sound. She can hardly handle silence on her own; her ears will often twitch to the nearest sound, and those sounds often come with colours she either finds drab or dreary when they aren’t overwhelming in some way. It’s nice to think, for every colour Yang shows her, she can also relish the quiet without her ears finding some way to pull her away-

“Blake!” Orange fills her vision, fluttering and brilliant, and she lets out a sigh. So much for quiet, it seems. 

She turns on her heel to face Sun, who’s leaning against the doors with a crooked grin; beside him, Velvet watches her with coy suspicion.

“We’ll meet you at  _ Malachite's _ when you’re done with your-”

“ _ Okay, Sun!” _ Blake shouts back, perhaps a little too quickly, but she’d be hard-pressed to let him finish his thought. She sighs and turns back to Yang, maybe looking a bit more sheepish than she’d like and probably giving herself away in the process. “Speaking of dorks…”

“Your friends?”

“On a good day, yes.”

Yang laughs at that, and the sound is as musical as Blake remembers. “Well, I don’t wanna keep you from your ‘good day friends’.”

“We’re heading out for drinks,” Blake finds herself almost interrupting Yang, more desperate to keep talking to her than she is to consider what she’s saying (though she shuffles awkwardly when she does realize). “I mean, I know you don’t drink, but you’re welcome to join us either way. I’m sure the bar’s got Sprite.”

Yang looks at her quizzically, and red rumbles in the space around them. Of course she’s jumped in too quick, let that part of herself back in, and she only hopes she hasn’t hurt Yang too much with such an inconsiderate invitation.

Of course, Yang stays polite as she raises her hand to her neck. “Thanks, but I don’t think I can. Sorry.”

“Right,” Blake murmurs, fiddling anxiously with the bouquet in her hands as her heart sinks. She’s not sure which hurts more - the quiet rejection whose hurt she masks or the self-loathing guilt tearing at her for what she knows was such an obvious oversight on her part - but it’s not like she’s unused to these feelings either way. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Yang waves her hand as if trying to swat away the red she sees. “It’s totally cool. I’m just, you know...not my favourite place to be unless it’s a gig.”

“Of course.” Blake taps her foot and turns back to the door just as Sun and Velvet leave, and she grips the bouquet tighter. Plans are plans, of course, but Gods forgive her for wanting to stay here a little longer, keep this piece playing for one more set, see what other colours she can find in the melody of her laugh should she find it again.

“Well,” Blake begins sheepishly, “thanks again for coming. And for the flowers, obviously. Maybe we can talk later?”

“Sure,” Yang says warmly. Maybe that’s enough for Blake right now, though she can’t deny that she might want just a bit more.

Still, she’s not going to keep her friends waiting, and she’s not going to try and push Yang - after all, she doesn’t want to do anything that might chase her away - and so she offers her a quick, bashful wave before turning towards the door.

“Or,” Yang’s gilded voice cuts through the chatter, keeping Blake anchored for just a moment longer as she peers behind her, “we could talk over coffee tomorrow morning?”

Blake’s heart swells at the invitation, bolstered by how earnest Yang’s blissful smile is. It’s the same one she’s worn almost all night, from the moment Blake walked out onto stage until now, and it’s the one Blake mirrors without even realizing. She hardly has to think long about her answer; the blush in her cheeks has already painted her answer for both to see. 

“I’d like that,” Blake says.


End file.
